


The Marrying Kind

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Dwarf Courting, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s never been very good with silence. He likes music and laughter and loud things—but with Nori, somehow, it’s all right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Marrying Kind

He’s never been very good with silence. He likes music and laughter and loud things—but with Nori, somehow, it’s all right. They’ll have a few drinks, tell a few bawdy jokes, and then Nori will retreat into his mug and look around thoughtfully at the room, keeping his own council. Bofur doesn’t mind that, so much. He can just sit back and wait and watch. It’s so interesting watching Nori, because his eyes are so quick. They flicker from one person to the other, cataloging hands, weapons, and shiny things, and then over to take note of doors and windows. Then he looks back at Bofur and grins and drinks again.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Nothin’. Do you sleep with your eyes open?”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” Nori snickers and Bofur holds a hand to his heart.

“You _wound_ me, Nori, really you do.”

He has tried to give Nori courting gifts seven times in the last three years. Nori refuses them each time, with varying degrees of sympathy. He always says they’re well done and he likes looking at them, and Bofur doesn’t know why he won’t accept them. Sometimes Bofur thinks it would be best if he just stopped offering, but then they get drunk and Nori curls into him like a kitten (bristling with knives though he is) and says something like “I wish I were the marrying kind” and he just _can’t_.

Lucky for him, he’s got a cheerful disposition. Doesn’t get discouraged easily.

“How long are you in town, then?”

“Until my brother figures out I’m here,” Nori gripes. “Then I’ll give ’im one day to fuss, see if I can teach Ori something worth knowing, and I’ll be off again. Haven’t been to Dunland in an age.” He downs his beer. “Want to come?”

“Can’t,” Bifur says regretfully.

“Can.”

“Can’t. I’m going to be an uncle in a month... again. Taza’s having triplets, so Bombur’s having kittens. They need me here.”

Nori frowns a little bit. His eyes are olive green in the torchlight and his hair shines like burning bronze. Bofur frowns at his mug—he can’t tell if he needs more beer or if he should’ve stopped an hour ago. Either way, he drains it and staggers to his feet, gesturing in a vague kind of way at the bar.

“Don’t bother with it,” Nori says, tugging at his arm. He opens his coat with a wink. “Snagged the bottle. C’mon, I’m sick of this place.”

Bofur throws an arm around his shoulders and they leave the tavern. He doesn’t know where they’re going, exactly; he just staggers after Nori, who weaves through the streets of the mountain with a clear destination in mind. They stop when they’ve left the reach of firelight, and come upon a little foothill dotted with pine trees. Nori falls to the ground and takes a long draught of the bottle. It’s not ale but wine, and a purple drop soaks into his beard. He drinks again and then holds the bottle out to Bofur. He hesitates for a moment and Bofur notches an eyebrow, but then Nori shoves it into his hands.

“I stole this,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s my craft, isn’t it? So maybe we’re courting now,” he giggles.

“Come off it, Nori,” Bofur sighs. “Don’t joke.”

It’s autumn and the smell of falling leaves is heavy in the air. It fits Nori, somehow, and Nori draws closer as the wind picks up. He’s drunker than Bofur thought--he always did hide it well.

“Maybe I’m not. Maybe you’ve persuaded me.”

“Nori...”

“You don’t believe me?” Nori’s eyes gleam catlike in the darkness and he stretches out on his back. “Low self-esteem, that’s what that is. Don’t worry, lad, you’re nearly as handsome as I am, even if your beard isn’t.”

“If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a hundred times,” Bofur says, relieved to change the topic. “Our kind put the focus too much on beards, in my mind. There should be more appreciation for a good mustache than there is.”

“I like your mustache,” Nori mumbles.

The quiet comes again. Bofur lets it lie, because it seems safer. Nori’s roving eyes are closed. Not searching for anything, not noticing things that ought not be noticed. He waits until his heart is calm again and then he pulls out his pipe. The smoke saturates the air, rough and familiar, and he hums an old drinking song. One of Nori’s favorites. Nori takes the wine back.

“You’ve had plenty,” Bofur admonishes.

“One more?”

“Aye.”

He lets Nori have one more drink, and takes one himself, and pours the rest out on the ground. The hill smells like wine and smoke and falling leaves. And then Nori leans closer again--not quite putting his weight on Bofur’s side, but close enough that the tips of his hair brush against the rough cloth of his jacket. Bofur’s nose twitches as he tries not to inhale the rich scent of skin, cloth, soap.

“We’re not courting,” Nori mumbles. “‘M not the type. You should court Dori.”

Bofur stares at him in astonishment for a moment, and then he howls with laughter. He can’t help it—he laughs and laughs until he rolls on the grass and gets wine squelched into his trousers. He can’t think of any Dwarf he’d like to marry less than Dori. When his last giggles have bubbled out he’s lying on the ground beside Nori and he pillows his head on his arms.

“Why would I want to do that? No offence, but I’ve met plow horses with better senses of humor than your brother. An’ I’m sure he’d only let me drink a reasonable amount of ale, and never nick things from me. Downright boring, it’d be.”

Nori shrugs and rolls over on his back.

“He’s the type. Respectable-like. Stays in one place, good with little ones... never gets run out of town, always knows what’s polite and all that. I’ve never been to a wedding, you know, ’cept to rifle through pockets. Your family would like him.”

“They like you plenty. Bombur likes your hair and your stories, and Bifur says you’re welcome to our floor anytime you want, if you’re not hiding from someone. Thinks that would be too much trouble for us. But that’s not what matters, is it?” He reaches over and touches his fingers to Nori’s face. Nori’s skin is warm in the evening chill and the other dwarf leans into his touch. “ _I_ like you plenty.”

Nori opens his eyes and smiles. He rolls onto his side and easily, gracefully, kisses the corner of Bofur’s mouth. His lips are warm but the tip of his nose pressing against Bofur’s cheek is cold. It’s a blunt detail, keeping him in the moment, distracting him from the feeling that sunshine is spreading through his entire body.

 _Does he feel this?_ he thinks dimly. _He must, he must_.

“Coming to Dunland?” Nori mumbles.

“No... coming back afterwards?”

“Aye.”

“Might be I’ve got something new for you when you do.”

Nori tweaks Bofur’s nose affectionately.

“I could use a floor tonight.”

“Lucky my cousin likes you, then.”

But he doesn’t feel like standing just yet. He lies on his back and stares up at the stars. It’s cold, and they look like hard, bright iron in the sky. His pipe has died out but the smell still lingers and so does the melody in his head. He hums it softly and after a long moment Nori joins in, chasing the silence away.


End file.
